


a mess

by ymorton



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 20:26:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10704486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: an au based on this anon prompt:"I saw a long list of weird AUs and there was one about meeting someone while you're both doing the sunday walk of shame. I would love to see this in your writing. do with it what you wish."written february 2015





	1. Chapter 1

Oh god. Ohhhhh, god. Zayn shouldn’t have taken that last tequila shot. Or smoked that final bowl to get to sleep. Or, now that he thinks about it, he probably shouldn’t have fucked that girl against the kitchen counter of Mark’s flat, because his thighs are burning and he’s pretty sure he pulled a muscle at some point. Zayn can’t even remember the sex, and the phone number she wrote on his hand is smeared beyond comprehension. Wasn’t fucking worth it.

He shoves his way onto the train, nearly groans when he sees there are no seats. His head’s pounding like a fucking brass band, and he grabs the nearest pole he can find, holds on for dear life.

Just, like, eight stops, and one transfer, and five more stops. And then five blocks to walk and two flights of stairs and oh, Jesus _Christ_ , why does Zayn live in the fucking West Village? More importantly, why is he friends with people who live in Bushwick? He can’t deal with this. He’s not leaving his flat for three fucking days, deadlines be damned.

The train hits a particularly vicious bump and Zayn chokes on a sudden mouthful of his own spit, goes wide-eyed when he realizes it’s not just spit. Oh fucking - no. He’s not vomiting on a train. He is not going to _vomit_ on a _train_.

He swallows hard, presses his burning cheek against his hand, resting against the subway pole. Closes his eyes, but then he’s so dizzy he nearly falls over.

He opens them again slowly, locks eyes with a bloke straight across from him, clutching a pole with a pale hand, scarf wrapped around his neck. Dark, tangled curly hair, green eyes, soft pink mouth curving up in a smile. On a better day, Zayn would smile back, but as it is he’s holding on to a grotty subway pole for dear life and he just puked in his mouth a bit. Also his hair’s a fucking mess and he has the suspicious feeling that he has two-day-old mascara under one eye. Waterproof his arse.

He looks away, and the train slides to a stop. Seven stops to go. A seat opens up, half a subway car down, but Zayn’s barely taken a step towards it when a woman slides in, not even looking up from her phone. Zayn wants to kill her. Or sit on her lap. Whichever one would let him not be standing up anymore.

The boy from before is still watching him. Zayn peers at him, and the train jostles mightily, and Zayn lets out a pained breath. He shuts his eyes as the train stops again, tries to calm the roiling in his belly.

When he opens them again, the boy’s closer, sharing his pole, hand wrapped just above Zayn’s. He has a tiny cross tattooed on one hand, and he looks sheepish.

“Sorry,” he says, under his breath. “Crowded in here.”

Zayn nods, looks away. Oh god, his breath probably smells like vom.

“You alright?” the boy asks, still in that soft voice. He’s got a hint of a British accent. Zayn would ask him about it, but he just - he can’t. Not today.

Zayn nods again, and the train bumps. Zayn whimpers.

“You need a, like, paracetamol?” the boy asks. “Got some in my bag.”

“Yeah, absolutely, I always accept pills from strangers on the train,” Zayn says dryly. His voice comes out all hoarse.

Instead of being insulted, or fucking off, the boy laughs, dimples popping out.

“That’s a fair point,” he says. “Hey, are you English?”

Zayn peers at him suspiciously, and the train makes a screeching sound, the ground vibrating under Zayn’s feet.

Zayn drops his head, hair falling over his face.

“Oh god, I’m gonna puke,” he mutters.

“No you’re not,” the boy says, hand sliding down onto Zayn’s on the pole, cool and dry. Zayn’s hand is slick with sweat, so it’s a nice contrast. Very soothing. Embarrassing but soothing.

Zayn breathes out slowly through his mouth.

“Just breathe,” the boy whispers. “You are not puking on the tube. I don’t even know you, and I know you’re not going to do that.”

“I’m a fucking _mess_ ,” Zayn says, roughly, and then flushes hot, because that sounded a bit too honest. There’s sweat dripping down his neck into the collar of his jacket. He can feel the bloke watching him.

"Want to know what’s in my pocket?” the boy says quietly.

“Oh Jesus, don’t say your dick,” Zayn mutters. “Don’t tell me you’re a subway pervert. If you start wanking off I actually will puke.”

“Oh my god,” the boy breathes, affronted. “Do I seem like- ahh. I do seem a bit weird, I guess. Sorry. I just, like, see you on this train a lot, and you’re really fit, and I guess I felt a bit like I know you? You were reading Bukowski once, and I like- anyway. This is _really_ stupid. Sorry, again…”

"What’s in your pocket?” Zayn asks, cutting him off. _Really fit_. Zayn really wishes his hair looked as good as it did when he left his apartment the night before. 

“Hm? Oh, yeah. My pocket.” His hand lifts off Zayn’s. “Oh, now that I think of it, it’s still kinda creepy. I just wanted to, like, show you you’re not the only one who’s a mess.”

“You’re not a mess,” Zayn says, peering at him accusingly. The boy is fresh-faced and practically gleaming, his teeth white and shiny and his cheeks pink.  "Don’t patronize me.“

The bloke laughs, biting his plump bottom lip. “What, cos I don’t look hungover? This posh girl I’m seeing has this incredible moisturizer. La Mer. Has like algae and gemstones and shit. Costs like a hundred bucks a bottle. I stole some.”

Zayn gives him a look that he hopes conveys, _why the fuck are you talking about moisturizer_?

"Point is,” the boy says, resting his cheek against his own hand, yawning. He has a very pink tongue. “I puked in a cab last night, and lost my ID, and the only thing in my pocket right now is two used condoms. So, like-”

“ _Used_?” Zayn chokes.

“Uhh. Yeah. In my defense, we were in the park, and I didn’t want to litter-”

“There are bins all over the fucking park!”

“It felt logical at the time?”

“Used condoms!” Zayn repeats, and gets a dirty look off some woman with a toddler in her lap.

The boy giggles - full on giggles - and leans in.

“So, like,” he says. Their faces are pretty close together. “The point is - we’re both kind of trashbags.”

“Trashbags?”

“My friend says that,” the boy says with a shrug, eyes soft. “When I’m being slutty. Which, according to him, is a lot.”

Zayn stares at him for a second, and then huffs out a laugh.

“You’re fucking weird.”

“Yeah, he says that too.”

Zayn laughs again.

“What’s your stop?” the boy says.  

“Essex.”

“Ooh, I get off at Marcy. We’re practically stop-mates.”

Zayn nods, and the boy blinks at him a few times.

“This is going to sound sort of, um- but, like. Do you want to get breakfast with me?”

Zayn must make a face at the thought of food, because the boy laughs sheepishly.

“Coffee, whatever. Tea. Like - sitting still for a while and slowly consuming liquids and not puking.”

Zayn thinks of his bed, cozy and inviting. Netflix and blankets and two-day-old fish tikka that will either cure his hangover or make him immediately vomit.

It’ll all keep. It’ll wait. Well, maybe not the Indian food, but-

“Yeah,” he says. “I mean. Sure.”

“Sick,” the boy breathes softly, bouncing on his toes, and they lapse into peaceful silence until they reach Marcy Street.

Zayn follows him off the train, only remembers once he’s pushing through the gate.

“Wait,” he says, as the boy emerges behind him, shaking his long hair back from his face. “What’s your name?”

The boy grins. “I’m Harry.”

“Alright. I’m, uh, I’m Zayn.”

“Zayn,” Harry repeats, savoring it, and takes off up the steps, arse bouncing in his black skinny jeans. Zayn tries not to stare and fails. “C’mon! You like lattes? There’s this place by my flat. The mochas are unreal. Y’know that’s just a latte with chocolate syrup, right? Hot choccy for grown-ups.”

Zayn huffs out a laugh, runs a hand through his gel-sticky hair, and follows Harry up to the street.


	2. Chapter 2

“You’ve honestly never been to Times Square?” Harry asks, wide-eyed, leaning across the table and stealing one of Zayn’s onion rings.

“Nope.”

“But- but it’s like- everyone’s been to Times Square.”

“Not me. Just tourist bullshit, innit?”

“But we’re sort of tourists. Like, we live here, but also… we’re tourists. Since we’re not _from_ here.”

“Speak for yourself, Harry.”

Harry sticks his tongue out, and reaches for another onion ring. Zayn slaps his hand, and Harry steals it anyway, pops it in his mouth, chewing and grinning at the same time. It’s sort of disgusting.

“You know what?” Harry says, once he’s swallowed, his eyes lighting up.

“We’re not going to Times Square.”

“That’s not what I was-”

Zayn gives him a look. Harry slumps his head onto his hand and eats a french fry. “Fine, that is what I was going to say. Listen, there’s a place that has the _best_ cheesecake. I went there when I was seven, and me mum took me and my sister to New York after my parents got divorced? It was actually like a really depressing trip, because my mum kept crying, which made us cry, so it was just like three crying British people walking around New York City-”

“Harry…”

“Oh, yeah, so. The point is - cheesecake, like, this place was so good. I ate a whole giant piece and then got sick in a bin.”

“That’s not a good recommendation, really.”

“The cheesecake was good, though! I only got sick because I also stole half of my sister’s and then ate a cannoli.”

Zayn snorts. “Greedy.”

Harry shrugs, and grabs another onion ring. “I just don’t know how to keep my hands to myself.”

“Bite off more than you can chew.” Zayn says, cupping a protective arm around his plate when Harry reaches in again.

“Oh, but I can chew a _lot_ ,” Harry says, and he winks pointedly.

“Chewing isn’t sexy,” Zayn says. “Like, what are you going to sexily chew on? My dick? Don’t chew on my dick.”

Harry picks up a fry and tries his best to sexily chew. It is a tiny bit sexy, Zayn must admit. Harry looks good putting things into his mouth. It’s not Zayn’s fault.

Harry swallows with a meaningful gulp and Zayn rolls his eyes.

“So,” Harry says, sucking salt off the tips of his fingers. “Times Square?”

“Harry-”

“You won’t regret it. Promise. Cheesecake, some roasted nuts, a hot dog-”

“We’re eating burgers right now! How are you still hungry?”

Harry shrugs.

“Honestly, like, to be honest, I could probably eat a hot dog and an entire slice of cheesecake right now.”

Zayn pulls a face. “Nahh. You’d be sick in a bin again.”

“No I wouldn’t. Me mum calls me the garbage disposal.”

“You’re like one of those girls who goes on about how much they like junk food, but they’re super skinny,” Zayn says, snorting. “I ain’t buying it, string bean.”

“Dare me to, then,” Harry says, eyebrows raising in a challenge.

“Dare you to what? Make yourself sick?”

“To eat a slice of cheesecake and a hot dog. And the rest of your onion rings.”

“Dare you to steal my food, I don’t think so.”

Harry steals one, right from under Zayn’s nose. Folds it in half and pops it in his mouth.

“Bet you I can.”

“This is weird. This is like a weird party trick.”

“Hot dog, cheesecake, and then - your dick,” Harry says, leaning across the table, voice deceptively sweet. His eyes gleam wickedly. “But no chewing on the last one, I promise.”

Zayn chokes on his Diet Coke. “You’re fucking insane.”

Harry just grins.

“This is not- that’s not a good come-on. At all.”

“Tried everything else, haven’t I?”

Zayn rolls his eyes heavily. That’s an overstatement. God, they’ve only been friends for five weeks. Just because Zayn would like to keep one fucking relationship in his life platonic. 

“Times Square,” Harry says, kicking Zayn’s foot under the table. Zayn kicks back, and Harry giggles, squirming in his seat. Like a child, he is.

Zayn hates himself for giving in, but - well. He gives in anyway. Sort of how it goes, with Harry.

—

“I still can’t believe you’ve never been,” Harry says, as they stand in an endless line of tourists for a hot dog on the street. Zayn doesn’t even eat hot dogs, and the lights are so bright they’re giving him a headache, and he’s been shoved over by three aggressive blonde families so far. “I mean, I come here like once a month.”

“You do fucking not.”

“I do! For photo class, I do. There’s tons of amazing material here, mate. Do you want a hot dog?”

Zayn shakes his head, and Harry orders, gets his hot dog, drizzled in yellow and red, and takes a massive bite.

“Mmmmmmm,” he says through his mouthful. “Delishush.”

Zayn snorts, and ducks out of the way of a Japanese family dressed in matching shirts. “Harry, can we get out of here?”

“No! Cheesecake!” Harry takes another bite, and starts walking. Zayn has to hurry to catch up, apologizing as he nearly trips over a triple-sized pram full of fat gurgly babies. “Okay, so. I come here because it’s interesting, alright? Times Square is meant to be this _destination_ , like, so many tourists flock here-”

“Yeah, I’m- intimately aware of that fact,” Zayn says, wincing and stepping over a suspiciously milky puddle.

“But, like. There’s so much pressure, like, to be happy, when you’re on a holiday. To be absorbing every moment and taking everything in and I think it leads to these really high-stress situations.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, behind Harry’s back so he can’t see. Harry’s too busy poking the last of his hot dog into his mouth. “So family holidays are actually the real source of stress. Not war or poverty or summat. Hanging out in Times Square, _that’s_ stressful.”

“To some people, yeah,” Harry says calmly, not taking the bait. “Like me, when I was little. Everything was really bright and really loud and exciting and me mum took us to this chocolate store- the Hershey’s one, and Gemma and I immediately took off. We come back and my mum’s sobbing hysterically cos she thought we were lost. She’s like, wailing, like there was a security guard trying to calm her down, and she just kept saying, like, _I thought you left me, I thought you left me_.”

He nudges Zayn’s shoulder. “Turn right up here, it’s on this block. Anyway, we kept walking, like, back to the hotel, and I gave her a piece of my chocolate, and she wouldn’t stop crying. I just remember feeling so, like, hollow. And scared. Like all the excitement was just - sucked out of me. And I just wanted to go home, and for everything to be okay with my parents again, and all I had was, like, chocolate.”

Zayn watches his face, smooth and bright-eyed, navigating the crowds with ease.

“It’s just, like, interesting,” Harry says, nodding Zayn towards a small glass door, holding it open for him. _Roxy_ , it says on the front. “Because going on holiday doesn’t make your problems go away. It just makes you want to hide them more. You’re still pissed off at your sister, or lonely, or hate your parents, or your parents hate each other, or whatever. And I want to try and - and capture that, sometimes- hi! Table for two, please?”

True to his word, Harry orders a giant slice of cherry cheesecake. Zayn goes for a cannoli, dips his finger in the filling and licks it off, while Harry puts a bite in his mouth. Zayn’s thinking, a little bit, about what Harry said. About how he is. So much more interesting than Zayn first thought. Smarter, too, and sweeter.

He’s also a bit of a trashbag, just like he said on the train, which is sort of the problem. Zayn could see himself falling in love, and that’s not - what Harry does. Zayn barely knows him and he already knows that.

Zayn falls too easy. He can cover it up with random fucks and vague stories about how he’s bad at commitment, but really it’s just- he falls and it hurts and no one sticks around.

So boring. So cliche, really. Zayn knows, but he can’t help it.

He tunes back in, as Harry starts talking about some other class he’s just started.

“It’s yoga, but for vegans,” Harry says, without a trace of irony, as he swallows a mouthful of cheesecake.

Zayn snorts. “You’re not vegan.”

“I mean, part-time, sort of. I’m getting that local farm box now. Splitting it with Daisy. Last night Nick came over and we made sweet potato mash and brussel sprouts salad and it was all-”

“Harry, you’re eating a giant piece of cheesecake. _Cheese_. As in, made from cow pus.”

Harry sighs. “Don’t be such a stickler for the details.”

“I’m not a stickler for the details, but vegans sure fucking are!” Zayn laughs. “Why d'you want to go to vegan yoga anyway? Bunch of hippies.”

Harry looks sheepish. “There’s this girl…”

“Of bloody course.” Zayn takes a bite of his cannoli. There’s always a girl.

“She’s got this incredible, um. Personality.”

“You were not gonna say personality!” Zayn says, snorting. “Don’t lie to me. What were you gonna say.”

Harry looks sheepish. “She does have a great personality-”

“But that’s not what you were going to saaaay.”

“Fine. I was going to say arse, are you happy now?”

Zayn laughs into his water glass, and Harry gives him a dirty look, his cheeks full of cheesecake.

—

In the end Harry makes it about three-quarters of the way through before he gives in, puts his fork down and flops his head back against the booth.

“Oh god,” he says, voice low and slurred like he’s drunk, eyes glazed over, in full food-coma mode. “I’m gonna be sick.”

Zayn snorts, tugs Harry’s plate over to him and takes a bite. “Told you.”

“I got - pretty far,” Harry says, rubbing his belly shamelessly, sticking out in his tight Rolling Stones t-shirt. “Farther than you would’ve gotten.”

“True.” Zayn licks cheesecake off the side of Harry’s fork. “I’m fine with that.”

“And now, it’s time for your dick,” Harry says grandly, just as the waitress sets the bill down on their table, very obviously trying not to laugh. Zayn goes bright red and ducks his head.

“Thanks,” Harry says, straightening up as best he can, wincing. “It’s really good cheesecake!”

The waitress doesn’t turn around. Zayn looks at the bill, and Harry pulls it out of his hand, tutting.

“I said I’d pay, I’m good for it.”

Zayn laughs. “Alright.”

Harry digs for his card.

“Are you really gonna be sick?” Zayn asks, watching him.

Harry draws in a breath, and then belches loudly. Zayn wrinkles his nose.

“Maybe,” Harry says. “It’s possible. More likely I just need to lie down for seven hours. Want to come back to mine and watch telly?”

Zayn’s got a piece due in forty-eight hours and tentative dinner plans with his flatmate. He shouldn’t. He and Harry have been spending too much time together anyway, lately.

But he kind of does want to see if Harry gets sick. And if he does, he’ll need someone to hold his hair back. He’s got such long hair, it needs holding.

Zayn licks mascarpone off his fingers. He’s so far gone. It’s fucked. 

“Yeah, I’ll come back with you.”

Harry smiles, lazy and soft. “Sick.”

—

Harry’s flat is bigger than most students - _my dad helps out with rent_ , Harry said once, with a look that told Zayn not to ask anymore- and mildly clean. Better than Zayn’s, anyway. His bed’s covered in cozy blankets and his walls in weird random art and photos that Zayn spent a full hour looking at when he was high the weekend before and Harry had people over.

They settle in Harry’s bed, against the wall. Harry hasn’t been sick, yet, which is an achievement. He keeps groaning, though, and he slides down into bed before Zayn’s even got Netflix up.

“Jesus,” he says, mashing his face into his pillow. “I’m gonna die.”

“You’re not gonna die.”

“I might. Why do I even try to impress you?”

Zayn huffs out a laugh, and puts his hand on Harry’s head, strokes through his wind-tangled curls. “No idea, mate. I don’t need to be impressed.”

“Yes you do,” Harry mumbles.

“I’m already impressed by your curly locks,” Zayn says in a baby voice, tugging at a strand of Harry’s hair. “And your pretty pretty face.”

Harry’s mouth curves up into a smile; Zayn can see the corner of it.

“Turn on Friends,” Harry says.

“S'it on Netflix now?”

“Yeah, mate. Where’ve you been? I’m already three seasons in.”

Zayn tugs Harry’s hair hard and Harry whimpers, pouts. A flush spreads down his neck and he wriggles closer. Zayn strokes his head in apology. “Sorry I’ve got better things to do than watch telly.”

“Oh, like smoke and wank off to hentai.”

Zayn shoves him, and Harry laughs and groans at the same time, clutching his stomach.

“Dooon’t.”

“Shut up,” Zayn says, but he slips down into bed next to Harry, balances the laptop on a pillow in front of them. Harry rolls onto his side, Zayn behind him, and pulls at Zayn’s arm as Zayn reaches over him to get the show playing.

“What?” Zayn asks, amused.

Harry lets Zayn put Friends on, and then takes Zayn’s hand, puts it on his stomach. “Belly rub, please.”

“You’re not a cat.”

Harry meows. He does that every time Zayn says he’s not a cat, which has happened a surprising number of times for only knowing each other for a month. Harry likes to eat tuna out of the can, take naps in the sun, and get his head scratched. He’s very feline.

But still, not a cat. 

“C'mon,” Harry whines. “It hurts.”

Zayn huffs a laugh against the back of Harry’s neck, and smooths his hand up the curve of Harry’s stomach, soft worn-out t-shirt and tight skin under his hand. Harry’s soft at the hips and lower belly, a layer of flesh that gives under Zayn’s hand. Zayn strokes it gently, presses his fingers in, and Harry shivers.

“Yeah,” he says, sounding hoarse. “Feels nice.”

“Shh,” Zayn hums, pretending like he’s absorbed in the show. He moves his hand in a slow circle, and Harry hums happily, letting his head fall back til it’s against Zayn’s chest. Zayn peers at him. His eyes are closed.

“Harry?”

“Mmgh,” Harry murmurs. Zayn’s got a hand under his shirt now, because he can’t help himself. Harry’s skin is addictively warm and soft, and every time Zayn strokes his stomach Harry makes a little sound, something low and intimate. Zayn wants to put his hand down further, touch the heat between Harry’s legs, see if he’s hard from all the attention. Get him hard if he’s not. Get him off. 

Zayn swallows hard. Jesus. Self _control_ , Malik.

“You watching the show?”

“Yeeah,” Harry mutters, very obviously lying. Zayn laughs, and kisses the back of Harry’s shoulder, helplessly, keeps rubbing Harry’s belly.

Zayn reaches over and quietly shuts the laptop when Harry falls all the way asleep about five minutes later. He rolls onto his back, away from Harry, stares up at the ceiling. It’s stupid that Zayn feels at home here, when he’s known Harry for three seconds, when they’re just supposed to be friends. It’s stupid that Zayn’s letting himself get in bed with him, even if it’s not _in bed-_ in bed.

It’s all stupid. Zayn shuts his eyes and sighs. 


End file.
